The Lazarus Condition

By Paul Kane

Matthew Daley is an enigma. He's appeared after seven years – eager to pick up the threads of his life, and make contact once more with his loved ones, which is something that's not so easy to do when everyone knows that's he's dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215472828

Book preview

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter XI

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

About The Author

Chapter I

And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go…

John 11.44

No one paid any attention as the dead man walked down the street.

A familiar street to him, with children playing football on the grass verge, wives gossiping on the corner next to the shop. He took in all the streetlamps, never having noticed them, really noticed them before. Now he was scrutinising everything around him: from the pebble-dashing of the council houses to the rickety nature of the peeling fences – which could so easily have been resurrected with a lick of paint.

Given new life.

He paused to look up at the sky, seeing the birds there catching the mild breeze, returned from their winter migration now that spring was here. They’d been drawn to sunnier climes, just as he was being drawn to this place, pulled as surely as if he was made of metal and someone was holding a gigantic magnet. He continued up the street, passing more people as he went: a man walking with a stick, newspaper jammed under his arm; a young woman pushing a buggy with a screaming kid in the seat; postman making deliveries to each of the houses. None of them looked closely enough to truly see him. None of them ever looked too closely at anything, they just went about the business of their mundane lives, worrying about bills – the same ones the postman was shoving through letterboxes that very morning – about the weather, about their families.

He was almost there. The house he was looking for was just across the road. He stared at the overgrown hedge and front garden: once neat and trim with a pond in the middle and gnomes fishing with tiny rods. What had happened to those? He couldn’t remember. In the great scheme of things did it really matter? Things came, things went. It was how it was.

He made to cross over the road, almost stepping into the path of an oncoming car. He pulled back just as the driver blared his horn, shouting through the open window: What the hell’s wrong with you? You tryin’ to get yourself killed?

The dead man watched him drive to the end of the road and follow the curve. Those words went around and around in his mind: Get yourself killed…Get yourself killed… He closed his eyes, images flashed across his field of vision below the lids:

A flicker of red, of light. Hands clutching at something, white knuckles and a ring on the third finger of the left hand. A pair of eyes, dulled but open in shock. A–

He snapped his eyes open, flinching when he felt the hand on his arm. Are…are you all right? asked an Indian woman standing beside him. He searched her features but found nothing recognisable. Again he just stared, not saying a thing. In the end the woman left him be, not knowing what else to do. As she walked on up the street, she looked back over her shoulder just once.

Turning, he checked for traffic this time and crossed the road to the house.

He studied the small semi, the windows gaping back at him in disbelief. He put a hand out for the gate, which was hanging off by the hinges. It creaked heavily as he moved it aside, the latch long-since vanished. The path was overgrown too, each carefully laid slab now raised slightly at the side by the sheer amount of weeds pushing up from beneath, like a healthy tooth dislodged by its crooked neighbour. He trod the path slowly, dead flowers on either side, leading him to the front door: its mottled glass set inside a faded varnished frame.

Raising a hand, he prepared to knock on the door. He hesitated. Why, he had no idea. This was what he was meant to do, he felt sure of it. And yet…

He shook his head and rapped twice on the wood. The wait was excruciating. He gave it a few minutes, then knocked again, cocking his ear at the same time. He heard movement from within, a voice calling, All right, all right. I’m coming.

The door opened a crack and someone peered out. It was difficult to see clearly as it was dark inside the hall, but then the door opened more fully. It wasn’t because the grey-haired woman standing there was cheerfully allowing him entrance, it was more that she was in a state of severe shock.

She put a quivering hand to her mouth, eyes wide and filling with moisture. Matt…Matthew? The old woman made to take a step towards him, but her already unstable legs gave out. No…no it can’t be. He covered the distance between them in an instant, hands there to catch her as she fell back into the house. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she began gasping for air.

It’s okay, I’ve got you, he said, experimentally talking again. He half carried her back into the house, then closed the door on the outside world. He tapped her face gently with his fingers. It’s me, Mum, he told her. It’s really me.

But she fainted again. The result of seeing her dead son standing there on the doorstep after seven long years.

Chapter II

Mrs Irene Daley woke from her nightmare to find herself on the couch.

She’d had the most awful dream. In it she’d been watching the television – The Breakfast Show had just finished, and she was about to turn off a report on the troubles abroad, the commentator stating that they were on the verge of yet another conflict. Then there had been a knock at the door. She hadn’t heard it at first for the explosions on the TV, but when the knock came again she’d switched off the set with the remote then got up to answer it, her back aching as she lifted herself out of the high seat chair.

Whoever it was they were persistent. Might be the postman? she’d mused as she turned into the hallway. But why would he knock? No one ever sent her any packages – not even her own family. She was lucky if she got any mail at all that wasn’t simply junk. She’d called out to them that she was coming, and by now she could see the shadowy shape through the misted glass at the door. Irene even considered putting on the chain, but it was the middle of the morning not ten o’clock at night. Nobody would be trying to break into her home this early on in the day, surely? So she decided to meet the potential threat halfway, only open the door a tiny bit – then she could shut it again quickly if need be. But she could also see who was so eager to get her attention.

When she opened the door she thought her eyes were playing tricks. Through the gap she looked out at a face she hadn’t seen in over half a decade. A face she’d adored more than anything in this world – last seen under a very different set of circumstances. Her boy; her Matthew.

But that couldn’t be. It only happened in dreams, in nightmares. So when she’d collapsed in the hall and everything had gone black, it only lent more weight to the argument that this was all in her head. That she’d made it all up because yes, even after this length of time, she still missed him so, so much.

She’d heard him say something but by that time darkness already had her. Now that she was rising from that deep pit of despair and pain, she was even more convinced the events that put her there were a product of her imagination.

Irene resolved to open her eyes, get up, and pop the kettle on. To try and put this whole